Tis No Sin For A

Art Thou Afeard To Be The Same In Thine Own Act And Valour As Thou Art In Desire? Wouldst Thou Have That Which Thou Esteem'st The Ornament Of Life, And Live A Coward In Thine Own Esteem, Letting 'i Dare Not' Wait Upon 'i Would,' Like The Poor Cat I' The Adage?

Gloucester: Yet So Much Is My Poverty Of Spirit, So Mighty And So Many My Defects, As I Had Rather Hide Me From My Greatness, Being A Bark To Brook No Mighty Sea, Than In My Greatness Covet To Be Hid, And In The Vapour Of My Glory Smother'd. But God Be Thanked. . . .

World, World, O World! But That Thy Strange Mutations Make Us Hate Thee/ Life Would Not Yield To Age.

I Despised My Arrival On This Earth And I Despise My Departure; It Is A Tragedy.

Lay On, Mcduff, And Be Damned He Who First Cries, 'hold, Enough!